


Swiffer Me Off My Feet

by Caitybug



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms, Swiffer Wet Jet "Delivery (Baby Come Back)" Commercial, swiffer wetjet
Genre: As much as a mop can yearn, Crack, M/M, No beta because this story is ridiculous and doesn't deserve one LOL, Silly, Yearning, baz is a swiffer wetjet, i guess, in the background lol - Freeform, mentions of other people in the gang, simon is a mop, vague family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:42:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28509126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitybug/pseuds/Caitybug
Summary: Simon Snow is a mop. Well used, well-loved.But then a Swiffer Wetjet is purchased, and he feels completely obsolete.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 38
Kudos: 68





	Swiffer Me Off My Feet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nickeyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickeyre/gifts).



> This is crack y'all. A stupid joke I made once in the discord come to life.
> 
> Be sure to check out [Nick's](tumblr.com/blog/nick-eyre) [Art](https://nick-eyre.tumblr.com/post/638261697832009728/feel-free-to-ignore-but-uh-could-i-pls-have) because a) their art is amazing and b) I made them draw a Swiffer Wetjet once haha.

Simon

I’ve been used for such a long time, I’m practically a staple in this house. 

Spilt soup? I’ve got you.

Dog peed on the floor? I can handle that too.

I can take down the messiest of instances. With there being young ones in the house, I often have to.

(Vomit.) (I’m good at cleaning up vomit.) 

(I don’t _prefer_ that. But what choice do I have?)

But then _he_ showed up.

He’s new, lovely, and doesn’t need a bucket of soapy water. 

_A Swiffer Wetjet._

I used to sit in the space between the fridge and the wall, next to the broom and dustpan.

But then _he_ arrived. And… well.

It only took a week before I was moved to the _closet._

Next to the vacuum.

I hear the stupid noises of the cleaner being ejected from his system and scoff. 

_That fucking posh mop- he thinks he’s so fucking fancy._

I hear laughing and a crash.

_Silence._

Then, in a flash, the door opens and I think- _is it time? Am I finally being recognized for all that I-_

But she reaches in and grabs the vacuum, placing the Swiffer inside.

_If I had fists I’d punch him._

He must hear me, because the fucking twat has the nerve to fall over, hitting me _right in my handle_ , toppling me over.

I watch him, practically snickering to himself, as I fall out of the closet. I hear a shout from the other room at the loud bang, and think that someone is going to come pick me up.

(They don’t.)

It takes someone tripping over me to notice- and even then they begrudgingly pick me up and toss me in. 

Next to _him._

(God I hate this fucking place.)

***

It takes two days for anyone to need us again. (I heard it- _spill in aisle child’s bedroom_.) When they open the door, I assume it’s to grab me.

_I’ve always been used for the most extreme of messes._

But dirty hands reach past me, wrapping around his handle, and pull him out.

_What?_

(But I’m the one who cleans up those messes.) (I doubt his fucking spray can clean up vomit or feces- or _worse._ ) (What’s worse than those, you ask?) ( _You don’t want to know_.)

The last image I see is of his smug purple stripe being pulled up in the air, mocking me as the door closes. 

_I want to rip it right off his-_

“Take Baz and clean up,” I hear muffled through the door frame. Footsteps stop down the hall, up the stairs that reside above the closet.

_Baz._

What a fucking name. 

_Who names a mop Baz?_

At least they named me something normal. Something sensible.

_Simon._

The vacuum is Penelope.

The broom is Shepard.

(They name everything here. Not sure why.) (Even named the roomba Agatha.)

But _Baz_? Baz is ridiculous.

(Stupid name for a stupid Swiffer.)

***

I think curses about him until he returns, which isn’t after long. (They put him beside me again.) (I fucking _hate_ it.)

I can tell he hates it too. He’s slowly slipping away from me on the wall, desperate to run (desperate to leave.) 

He smells too. (Lovely. He smells lovely.) 

Cleaning supplies like us shouldn’t _have_ a smell. But he does. (It’s the cleaning fluid. Smells like lavender.) 

I wonder, briefly, if _I_ have a smell. (I don’t think I do.)

The vacuum doesn’t smell. Neither does the broom.

Even Agatha is scent free.

So why does _he_?

And _why_ do I feel calmer when that scent is close?

***

I find myself missing that scent two days later when he’s pulled from the closet again.

It lingers for a moment, but not long. (Not long enough.)

It’s quickly taken over by the smell of spilt bleach. 

(Will they ever notice?) (Not likely.) 

There are too many scents buried within this closet. There’s pine sol purchased five years ago. VInegar left forgotten in the back corner. A can of spray paint lays with the cap off. (Sometimes they knock something into it and it sprays the wall.) (I swear we get loopy each time that happens.)

So I wait. I wait for his return. (The return of lavender and purple.)

But he doesn’t come back. 

It’s days (weeks? Months? I’m not sure what time is.) (I’m only a mop.) before he returns.

(He looks worse for wear.)

And when he’s propped against me, I don’t complain. I don’t curse him with everything from my handle to the wild strands of cloth on my head. 

I just let him be. 

I try to find the scent, but it’s missing. It’s somewhere deep within, but not as strong. 

(His cleaner is missing.)

_What mess did you have to clean up, Baz?_

(Had to be at least a stage 5 cleanup to need _all_ that cleaner.)

Oh Baz… 

_Baz._

(I wonder what Baz would be short for. Barles? Barry? Baffington?)

Bet it’s something dumb like _Basilton._

Basilton.

Basil?

There’s a ruffle outside the door. Floorboards creak and something crashes into our closet.

He falls a little more on me.

_Baz._

***

The next time the closet opens, it’s me that gets pulled out.

I’m shocked.

Smug.

Absolutely _thrilled._

(But when I see the door close, I feel dissatisfied.)

Baz leans against the shelf, defeated.

(Certainly he’ll get used too?)

_Fuck._

Why am I feeling _bad_ for him now?

He’s still more loved, more versatile.

_Easier to use._

(Well, easier when he has his cleaner.)

The place where it usually sits, right near his head, rests empty- cleaner still not replaced. 

The door closes.

I spend the entire time worried about him.

(I can’t even appreciate the cleaner they’re using.) (Natural. Non scented. Completely good for their floors, the environment, _and_ my mop head.)

And when I’m put away, it’s Baz I’m watching. Studying him for what he is.

(He’s just a mop.)

It’s the first time that I see the piece of tape towards the top of his handle.

It’s blue (painter’s). Just like mine.

_We match._

***

It’s like that for a month (I think.) (Again, I’m only a mop.) (And time is a social construct.)

I’m pulled out several times. The broom is used practically daily. (Always is. There are constant crumbs that need to be swept up.)

(He’s awful at it, though. I’m constantly getting crumbs he’s missed.)

The vacuum gets pulled out once. (She’s not used often, but when she is it’s always a big job.)

Agatha, the Roomba, is let loose each day for a few hours. (I can hear the humming of her running nearby right now.)

But Baz stays behind. Forgotten.

_Broken._

I try to comfort him. (How? How can I comfort a broken Swiffer?) 

He ignores me.

(I think, at least.) (It sure feels that way.)

He even gets the _good_ hook to hang off. It’s not loose or threatening to fall off the wall at any moment. (Not like mine.)

So what’s he to complain about?

(More importantly- _why do I care?_ )

***

The next time the closet door opens both Baz and I are pulled out. 

I’m confused at first, until I see it.

_Christ on a bike-_

“Go over it with this first,” I’m pushed forward into tinier hands. “Then use this”- he leans Baz against the counter- “after.”

I’m not sure what the person who’s holding me says because I’m quickly being dunked into a bucket. (Dawn dish soap and scalding hot water.) (Makes my handle itch.) 

Within ten minutes I’ve managed to clean it up, the bare minimum still left on the floors.

I’m moved to the side, and I watch as a new cleaner is inserted into Baz. (Citrus this time.) (Bold move on their part.)

I wonder, for a moment, _why_ they’d need to use us both.

But then I watch him work.

The way the cleaner shoots out in front of him. How he glides smoothly across the floor.

(The tiles sparkle once he’s passed over them.) (Holy _fuck_ do they sparkle.)

The whole world starts to smell of leftover lavender and newly added citrus.

It’s absolutely intoxicating and I can’t stop watching. It’s absolutely _enthralling._

(That’s it. This whole time- ever since he was brought into this house. I’ve been completely and utterly _enthralled_ with him.)

When he’s finished I’m left in awe. I can barely see anything past the shine in the floor and the purple of his handle. 

I don’t even remember being put back into the closet with him. 

(We’re on the same hook.) (It’s a tight squeeze but I don’t find myself minding.)

And I realize…

I don’t hate him.

_Quite the opposite._

I love him.

_And we make for a really great team._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want to, please check me out on [Tumblr!](tumblr.com/blog/caitybuglove23) (I swear I'm not always this crack-y haha.)


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